


Can't Spell Without A

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chronic Pain, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Guilt, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Overdosing, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Relapsing, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 07:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: By September's end, they're living together.By January's time, Tyler's lips will turn blue.Josh doesn't know that yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> request from [anon](http://edyluewho.tumblr.com/post/157758837984): chronic pain
> 
> translation into русский available: [Нельзя Написать Без Буквы А](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7302207/18608923) by [Блэкаут](https://ficbook.net/authors/820429)

Tyler smokes four cigarettes a day—one in the morning, one in the afternoon, one after dinner, and one before he goes to bed. Two are rolled with hints of marijuana—the one in the morning to help him face the day and the one at night to help him sleep.

Josh forgoes the nicotine, the tobacco. His joints are of CBD and only prescribed at night. He lies on his stomach as Tyler lounges on his back, a pillow stuck between their bodies. Tyler smokes with his face turned toward the open window, and Josh smokes with his face turned away from the open window. Cigarettes irritate his lungs and rattle him to his bones. Tyler continues to smoke. He smells like smoke. Josh buries his nose into the collar of Tyler's t-shirt every night.

Neither wants to leave the bed once they enter the gentle haze of warmth and release, so they sleep with the crickets and wake with the birds.

And Tyler lights another laced cigarette. And Josh slowly eases himself from the bed.

*

Tyler considers July 6, 2016, the best day of his life.

He says it's the first time he didn't regret leaving the house. He says it's the first time he enjoyed feeling the sun on his skin. He says it's the first time he returned home and actually thought he had color in his cheeks.

He says it's the first time he felt happy in a while.

*

Josh considers July 6, 2016, like any other day.

He rides his bike around the neighborhood every afternoon. He goes home, showers for a second time, and eats a dinner of whatever he has in the freezer. On that day, he thinks it was dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and crinkle fries.

And then, he goes to bed and wakes in extricating pain.

*

Tyler does, too, but Josh doesn't know that yet.

*

Josh meets Tyler a week later as he's taking his afternoon bike ride. Tyler's dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, a pair of Adidas sandals on his feet. The baseball cap on his head blocks any and all sun from his face, which is already a faint red from a burn. A smile lines his face, but that may be due to whatever is on his phone screen.

Josh eases on his ride, approaching Tyler at a slow pace, sure to swerve past him without incident. As he passes, Tyler raises his head, still smiling, and it's contagious. Josh smiles with him, and they continue with their day.

The next day, at the same time, Josh bikes, and Tyler walks. His phone is still the cause of the smile on his face.

"Hey," Josh says, and Tyler says, "Hey."

And the next day, and the next day, and the next day—

"Hey"—"hey"—"hey"—

"Hey," Tyler says to the back of Josh's sweat-stained shirt. "What's your name, man? I see you _way too much_ to not know your name."

Josh rolls to a stop. Tyler continues walking. Soon, he's by Josh's side, smiling again, cigarette in one hand, phone in the other, screen lit on something akin to a GPS.

"My name's Josh," Josh says. "What's yours?"

"Tyler," says Tyler. "I'm Tyler."

Josh feels awkward for doing so, but he holds out his hand for Tyler to shake. Tyler's careful, stuffing the cigarette in his mouth before taking Josh's hand. The handshake isn't professional. Both participants are fairly limp-wristed.

"I see you a lot," Tyler remarks, again, glancing at his phone for a moment before letting it slide into the pocket of his basketball shorts. He holds the cigarette between forefinger and thumb, more in tune with someone who frequently smokes marijuana. Josh notices the cigarette is rolled.

"I see you a lot," Josh parrots, and leans forward, both feet on the asphalt and elbows on the handlebars. There's a slow breeze. It whips his hair from his forehead, feels nice. "Most people take walks to get fresh air."

"Yeah."

"And you're smoking."

"Yeah." Tyler smiles. He holds out the cigarette. "Want a puff?"

"I shouldn't," Josh says, rubbing his knuckles.

"It has pot in it." Tyler's wearing a baseball cap today, too. The red on his face is starting to peel, particularly on his nose. "I forgot to smoke it this morning."

"I'm down for pot," Josh admits. "I can't handle nicotine."

"Why?"

"Not good for me." He's rubbing his knuckles again.

Tyler's watching him. He aims his exhales away from Josh. "Sucks."

Josh places a foot on a pedal, lightly pressing down, going forward. "I'll see you around?"

Tyler gets out his phone. For a brief moment, Josh thinks he's about to get Tyler's number, but Tyler's looking at that GPS again, sucking on his cigarette again. "Definitely. If it doesn't rain."

"If it doesn't storm," Josh clarifies. "I'm still gonna bike if it rains. If I see lightning, I'm out, though."

Tyler laughs. "Good point." He waves. "See ya around."

"See ya."

*

Josh wakes in pain. He takes a long shower, and the pain becomes bearable.

Before his bike ride, he slaps on his knee braces and swallows some over-the-counter painkillers.

He sees Tyler. Tyler's smiling again. Tyler's saying "hey" again. Tyler's waving bye again.

At home, Josh showers to get the sweat and grime from his body and falls onto his sofa. He ignores the flares as he forces himself to nap. Sometimes it works. It does today.

*

It's the end of August when Josh gets the courage to ask Tyler out.

Josh rides his bike, and Tyler walks.

Josh says, "Hey," and Tyler says, "Hey."

Josh says, "Can I ask you a question?"

Tyler sticks his phone in his pocket. The cigarette in his hand smells like a cigarette. "Hit me."

"Do you, uh… want to do something sometime?"

"Like what?" Tyler's mouth quirks as it wraps around the cigarette butt. He doesn't puff, doesn't inhale, just keeps the cigarette balancing on his bottom lip. There are dark circles under his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights and _something more_ , but Josh doesn't know what that is yet. It's building. It's in the foundations.

"Um." Josh licks his lips, thinking for a moment. "Maybe we could…"

"Yeah, sounds fun."

"Shut up." Josh smiles.

Tyler smiles. He inhales, then, and blows out a ring into the air above Josh's head. "A movie sounds good."

"A movie? Oh, I mean, wanna see a movie with me sometime?"

Tyler's smile turns devilishly. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. "Which movie?"

Josh laughs, passing his hands through his hair, the pink as pink as his palms, squeezing the handlebars, squeezing his roots. " _Dude_."

"We don't have to go to the movies," Tyler says, and he's still all smiles, but softer this time. He's not teasing. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and his hat off his head in one swift move. Arms by his sides, ashes fall on top of the lid of his hat. Josh watches the tip burn. Tyler's face is dark. "We can, like… order some food and watch shit TV."

"Whose place?" Josh sits back on his bike, crossing his arms over his chest. "What're we eating? What're we watching?"

Tyler narrows his eyes. "Mine? Pizza? Netflix?"

"Yes, yes, and… yes." Josh leans his weight on a foot, the other on tiptoe as he pulls out his phone. "What's your number?"

Tyler recounts it, drawing out his own phone with the cigarette back in his mouth and the baseball cap back on his head. The screen is black, but with a turn of his wrist, the screen is lit on that GPS. Josh catches a sight of a small person, an avatar, walk and spin in a circle. "What's _your_ number?"

"I'll text you," Josh says, and does.

"Cool." Tyler doesn't close out the app. He's rotating the screen, his character standing still now, not that concerned with replying to Josh's text.

Josh watches him.

Tyler taps with his thumb. "Can you do something for me real quick?"

"What is it?"

Tyler raises his head. Shame, sorrow, Tyler plucks the cigarette from his mouth and lets it drop to the ground beneath their feet. His sandal grinds into the butt, making it disappear into mere traces. "Take my phone," Tyler says, "and just go down this road, and then come back. My egg's about to hatch, and I… I need to… save my energy to walk home."

Josh understands now, what Tyler's been doing on his walks with his phone always out. He saw the posts on Facebook, he saw the memes on Twitter, but he never gathered enough interest to see what it was all about himself. But Tyler's here, next to him, has been taking walks every day to play this game. Tyler has dark circles under his eyes. He's trembling.

Josh says, " _Pokémon GO_ , right?"

Tyler nods.

"Have you hatched an egg before?"

"This will be my first ten kilometer egg." Tyler holds out his phone. "I'll be just down the road, okay? Gotta head home before I crash."

Energy, crash, Josh shakes his head and doesn't take Tyler's phone. Instead he pats the space on his bike's handlebars and says, "Hop on. Can't miss out on your first ten kilometer egg hatching."

So, Tyler climbs onto the handlebars of Josh's bike, and Josh continues down the stretch of road. The sun hides behind the clouds, Tyler laughs, and Tyler doesn't mind Josh pressing his cheek to his arm to see the road.

At a stop sign, Tyler says, "Whoa," and Josh stands from the seat, and they watch as Tyler's egg hatches into a small blue dragon.

"Dratini!" Tyler cheers. "Sick!"

Their celebration lasts far longer than necessary. Josh wants to hug Tyler, and he does, he _does_ , and Tyler is warm, Tyler is smiling and reaching behind him to rub Josh's shoulder, to card his fingers through Josh's hair, to laugh.

"You wanna take me home, too, dude?" Tyler asks, pocketing his phone. He squirms on the handlebars.

Josh leans his forehead against the middle of Tyler's back. "Sure."

Tyler, Josh learns, doesn't live far from him. The apartments are houses, two families to a building, and Tyler resides in one at the end of the street. Walking to the end of the street is a feat within itself.

Tyler gets off the bike with care, wobbling on his knees a little. "Thanks," he says. "I'll see you tonight, then?"

"If nothing happens."

"If nothing happens," Tyler finalizes.

When Josh gets home, he sits on the floor of the shower and lets the hot water soothe his aching joints.

Josh doesn't know Tyler is doing the same thing. Josh doesn't know Tyler hovers his thumb on his phone screen. Josh doesn't know Tyler is about to tell him to stay home.

 _i'm sick_ —no.

 _my mom said_ —no.

 _there was a death_ —no.

 _something happened_ —yes, _yes_ , but Tyler doesn't send it.

As Josh is picking himself from the shower, Tyler is doing the same. They're shaking, crying, and they stand in front of bathroom mirrors and scrub away tears and dress in layers, in pressure, in weight. Josh wears long sleeves to hide the braces on his wrists. He wears loose sweatpants to hide the braces on his knees. It's different now. He isn't riding his bike. Tyler might make a comment. Tyler might look at him funny. Tyler pulls on a sweater to hide the smell of Icy Hot.

Josh drives over, and Tyler lets him inside. Nobody says anything about the others' choice of clothes. It's comfortable. They're both comfortable. They sit on Tyler's couch, watch old cartoons on Netflix, and eat pizza with stringy cheese.

Tyler excuses himself to smoke a cigarette. He returns with a blotchy face and a t-shirt. "I'm sorry," he says, and sniffs. "You're probably having a bad night. I'm not a very good host."

"Dude, don't worry. I'm having fun."

"I'm sorry we couldn't go out and do something. I'm sorry I'm—"

"Dude," Josh presses. "Don't worry, okay? Sit back down. It's fine. I'm having fun."

Tyler sits. He says, "Don't touch me."

Josh says, "I won't."

Tyler blinks. "You didn't ask why."

"You said not to touch you. That's good enough for me." Josh takes over the remote and scrolls through more shows, more episodes.

Tyler wraps his arms around himself.

Josh tugs on his sleeves.

"I have fibromyalgia," Tyler says.

"I have rheumatoid arthritis," Josh says.

Tyler lets Josh rub Icy Hot where it hurts, and Josh discards his long sleeves and sweatpants to show off his braces.

They smile.

*

By September's end, they're living together.

By January's time, Tyler's lips will turn blue.

Josh doesn't know that yet.

*

In October, no one leaves the house. The air is cold, and the inky clouds in the sky make Josh immobile.

A silent conversation occurred mere months ago, possibly beneath blankets and shivering limbs, that led them to decide Tyler's little apartment would be a perfect home for them. Tyler visited Josh's rooms on more than one occasion, but, like Josh, Tyler often felt sleepy within the walls, and they spent more time rubbing each other's joints more than rubbing each other's—

"Dick, piss," Tyler hisses, hands up in surrender, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Josh raises his head from his phone, his thumb automatically shutting off apps and his forefinger dimming the screen. "Could you help me?" Tyler asks, hope fading in his eyes, being replaced by a joyous haze. A whirlwind spins in the angles of his brain, one that lets off electricity and skims across Josh's swollen knuckles.

"I told you not to balance the ashtray on your laptop." Josh leaves the bed, limping to the hall closet and tugging out a handheld vacuum, a necessity Josh wasn't aware of until he moved in with Tyler.

"Yeah, well…" Tyler flicks ashes with his arm from his body. It gets caught in carpet.

Josh shuffles back to bed. "Go to the desktop." Tyler reluctantly minimizes the browser window and shoves his cigarette into his mouth. Josh flips on the vacuum and sucks away all the ash from paper, tobacco, and green, green, green. "Should you be emailing people when you're high?"

Tyler is quiet.

Josh doesn't roll his eyes. He understands. He says, "Could you roll me one? My hands, they—"

Tyler shakes his head, shaking away the fog, and eases the vacuum from Josh's hand. "Sorry, I wasn't… _thinking_." Joint in his mouth, vacuum in a hand, Tyler drags the ashtray from his laptop's keyboard and cranes his body to set it on the nightstand. It's a bit of a stretch; Josh holds onto Tyler's hips to keep him in bed. Tyler groans at the pressure. He taps the cigarette into the ashtray, empty now, the fill stuck beneath the keyboard. Tyler sucks it away, Josh still clinging to his hips.

The _F_ key disappears. Tyler isn't too concerned. He doesn't notice it at first. Josh notices it. He says, "Hey," and Tyler's eyebrows shoot to his hairline, head bowed, fingers slow as they pinch weed and sprinkle it onto paper that should taste like strawberries.

"Shit," Tyler says, and continues rolling Josh's joint. "Uh, what words d'ya think I'd need to use that have an _F_? For, like, tutoring purposes?"

Josh thinks for a moment. "'Foreshadowing'."

"Shit." Tyler licks the paper to seal and passes it to Josh. "I'll light it." And he does, with a lighter scratched up and only used for their nighttime smoke sessions. "Should have fucking… I'm an asshole. I should have _known_ —"

"They're not as swollen as before."

"Yeah, but you literally told me this morning you had a flare."

"You were high this morning."

Tyler is quiet again. He reaches over and plucks his joint from the ashtray, sucking on it as he returns to his emails. Josh watches him, taking in slow puffs. Tyler responds to twelve emails, all from students needing help with their homework, with their papers. Tyler's eyes are so dark.

"M'tired," he says, like it isn't obvious. "Need help with anything before I nod off?"

Josh says, "No."

Tyler closes his laptop and stuffs it underneath their bed. He limps to the hall closet, too, to return the vacuum. His limping is more subtle. Josh's limping mimics a zombie.

Tyler returns. He gets into bed, stubbing out the rest of his cigarette, exhaling toward the open window. "Wanna fuck?"

"That's another word you can't type," Josh muses, a little fuzzy, holding his joint off the side of the bed, staring at the burning tip while Tyler shoves down his sweatpants, his boxers, and nudges his legs apart. "'Fuck'."

When Tyler is high on marijuana, he's sluggish, cozy, horny. He's slow as he fumbles with the lube, slow as he coats his fingers, slow as he fingers Josh.

"'Faster'," Josh says. "Another word you can't type."

Tyler curves his wrist.

"'Feels'. Like, _feels so good_."

Tyler's cock presses against Josh's hole, hot, hard.

Josh sucks on his joint, strawberries on his tongue. "'Full'. 'Faster, faster'. 'Fuck'."

"Fuck," Tyler says.

"Fuck," Josh says.

Tyler comes inside Josh. He ducks under the covers.

Josh is a live wire. "'Felch'," he mumbles. "'Fellatio'."

Tyler appears, lips wet and pressed tight together.

"'Fetch'," Josh whispers, and flicks ashes onto the sheets. "Fetch, doggy, fetch."

Tyler lets his semen drip from his lips and land in Josh's waiting mouth.

"'Fantastic'." Tyler is soft. He runs his fingertips down Josh's throat, prickly with stubble. "'Fortunate'. 'Fun'."

"'Forever'."

"'Forever'."

Josh hands Tyler the butt of the joint to stub out in the ashtray. He breathes. He says, "'Fibromyalgia'."

Tyler draws out a final drag before grinding the end into the bottom of the ceramic. "'Fear'."

Josh blinks. "'Fight'."

"'Free'." Tyler lies down, back to Josh in order for Josh to snuggle in close, to use Tyler as his pillow.

Josh says, "'Fine'."

Tyler snorts. "'Furries'."

Josh wants to pinch Tyler's side, but he doesn't. He rubs instead, a slight pressure, and Tyler snores.

*

Their first kiss was in the parking lot of a dollar store in September.

Doubled over the steering wheel, threatening to let loose the horn with a slide of his forehead, Tyler was in so much pain. Tears stuck to everything—Tyler's face, the sleeves of his jacket, the steering wheel, the car seat. It hurt to shiver, but he shivered, and Josh didn't know what to do. He was just inside the store, grabbing some popcorn, and he climbed into Tyler's car and saw the shaking shoulders and the shine of tears on cheeks.

"I can drive," Josh said. "Where does it hurt the most?"

Tyler's voice was barely above a whisper. "My arms."

Josh pulled off his wrist brace, the one on his right arm, and he gave it to Tyler, but Tyler twisted—albeit weakly—and said, "No, no, no—"

"Please, Tyler, please. This will help you. This will help—"

"No, please, don't."

"Please—"

"Please—"

Josh doesn't know who kisses who first, but they were leaning in, breathing, whispering and whispering, over and over, "Please, please, please."

And then, Josh drove, they sat on Tyler's couch, and they ate popcorn and watched Netflix.

*

Josh wakes to cigarette smoke and skunk.

Tyler's peaceful, eyes shut and lips parted as he gently rouses from sleep. Shoulders rolling, fingers curling and uncurling, Josh is staring at Tyler stretching and reaching. Tyler grabs his rolling paper and baggies of tobacco and marijuana. Josh stares and watches, and he watches Tyler form a cigarette on his chest, not even bothering to sit up or allow his head any sort of elevation with a pillow. Mechanical, Tyler rolls a joint with more marijuana than tobacco.

"If the pain's getting worse," Josh says, "we can go to the doctor."

In October, no one leaves the house. The air is cold. The air is cold.

Tyler shakes his head. "I'm fine."

Josh believes him.

*

Josh nor Tyler remembers their first time. They were black-out drunk.

They woke stuck to each other, naked, their spunk an adhesive. It was gross, and Tyler fumbled for his cigarettes and apologized profusely.

Josh said it was okay.

Tyler eventually learned it was okay, too.

They forgot how it felt to be in pain, and that's why it was okay.

Tyler said, "We shouldn't do that again," and Josh said, "All right."

Their second time was fuzzy and sensitive, their hard edges and inflamed joints soothed with pleasant highs, constant highs.

Tyler said, "We should do that again," and Josh said, "All right."

*

Josh soaks his flares with hot water from a stuttering showerhead. Pink hair dye goes down the drain.

Tyler helps him put on a headband, helps him push the damp hair from his forehead, helps him cover his ears with the thick gray band. With the headband on, Josh gets warm, and he gets warmer when Tyler continues pulling on clothes for him. Leggings, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, braces and braces and—

"You look cozy," Tyler says.

"You, too."

They're matching, save for the braces. It's a little nauseating, but it's good.

Josh doesn't bike in October. Tyler and he jog. Sometimes they walk. Sometimes they hold hands.

They hold hands today, their pace slow. Inky clouds are low in the sky, blocking out sun and all warmth. Josh hurts. He's limping. Tyler squeezes his hand. "Need to… to answer about three other emails."

"What do they need help with?"

"Two are students getting a head start with the ACT. Need to perfect their grammar."

Josh closes his eyes.

"The last one has a short story they want me to edit. I'm almost done with it, just have a few more pages to read." Tyler's limping now, too, clutching his side. "They're worried they have too much backstory and that their story has no plot. They're wondering if it's okay to focus on characters and what happens in their lives rather than an actual _story_ story."

"What're you gonna tell 'em?"

"No idea. Well, I have some idea. The story's fucking phenomenal. I love the characterization so far, and I'm rooting for everybody to have a happy ending."

"Do they have a plot?"

Tyler shrugs. "Trying to survive, I suppose. How are you hanging on?"

"Some guy wants me to send him an audio track that'd go with his song. Song's solid—I really like it—but I don't know how to tell him I've been trying to hold a pair of drumsticks for the past week and just… _can't_."

"Worried he'll hire someone else?"

"Yes, and—"

"We're good on rent," Tyler says. "I've been picking up more work. Even upped my prices by two bucks. We got this."

"Tyler, I think I need to see a doctor."

"It's the weather." Thunder rolls. Tyler and he speed up their walking. They're jogging. "It's the weather," Tyler repeats. "There's a storm coming."

Josh falls. Asphalt eats at the black coating of his wrist braces. He's skidding, twisting until he's on his side, rolling onto his back. Josh stares at his hands, his fingers pink, the metal confined in his wrist braces visible, wet. It's raining. Josh closes his eyes.

"Dude, you okay?" Tyler's on hands and knees, leaned forward, blocking the rain from getting in Josh's eyes. "I can carry you."

Josh touches his cheek.

"You're bleeding," Tyler says.

"Help me."

They barely make it home. Josh collapses on the sofa, Tyler with him. Scratchy, Tyler sings. Josh sleeps, the blood on his face dry. Tyler naps with him, always with him, always, always, always.

*

Tyler doubles up his smoking in the evening. One—laced with pot—in the morning, one in the afternoon, one after dinner, one—laced with pot—before bed, Tyler has a strict schedule. After waking from their nap nearing nine that night, Tyler lights up two cigarettes at the same time and smokes them at the same time. Josh is in the kitchen, next to the open window, as he waits for the meat for their tacos to cook.

He stirs, slow, and Tyler makes rings with his smoke and answers the remaining emails as he lounges on the sofa. Judging by the cursing and the rush to the hall closet, Josh assumes Tyler spilled the ashtray over his keyboard again.

Josh puts the taco shells in the oven.

Tyler's cursing more. Fluttering into the kitchen, flicking his cigarettes out the window, Tyler says, "Lost the _D_."

"Your _D_?" Josh presses his lips together. "You lost your _D_?"

"Can I have your _D_?" Tyler tugs on one of Josh's belt loops. It breaks. Tyler stares.

Josh blinks. "You can have my _D_ later."

Tyler wraps his fingers around the belt loop, broken, in his palm.

Josh says, "Let's think of words you can't spell without a _D_."

"'Die'."

"Yes, 'die'. Good." Josh slips on an oven mitt. "What else?"

"'Daddy'."

Josh tries not to laugh, flattening his lips into a straight line. "Yes…" He pulls out the taco shells and sets them on the stove top. "'Dog'. 'Good', too. That has a _D_ in it."

Tyler grabs the cheese and lettuce from the fridge. "'Demi…'"

Josh furrows his brow. "Like… sexual? 'Demisexual'? Can't spell that."

"No." Tyler frowns. "I mean, yeah, but… 'demiboy'."

Josh stares at Tyler. Tyler stares at the belt loop still in his hand. "Demiboy," he whispers. Tyler sniffs. Josh whispers more. "Are you my demiboy?"

Tyler wipes away tears, not bothering to blame it on the pain. "Totally, dude. Whatever."

"How many tacos do you want?" Josh asks, and Tyler stuffs Josh's belt loop in his pocket and says, "Four."

"Four." Josh sets four taco shells on a styrofoam plate. "Got it."

*

For dessert, Tyler swallows Josh's cock and lets Josh's come stain his lips. "It's okay," he says, rolling his nightly cigarette, his mouth shiny.

Josh lies on a soft mattress and doesn't move. "Could you fix me one?"

Tyler pulls out another sheet of rolling paper. "It's okay," he repeats, licking all the spunk from his face, that he can reach. Josh is too far gone to mention the spot on Tyler's cheek. Outside, it's storming. Inside, Josh's knuckles are swelled.

"Here." Tyler helps Josh sit up, the blanket to his stomach. "Can you hold it?"

"I…"

"No," Tyler says, and doesn't let Josh try. "Here." Tyler places the joint in Josh's mouth and flicks the lighter. It takes three tries to get a flame to erupt.

Josh breathes.

Tyler's tears shed the semen from his cheek. "Can you hold it?" he repeats. "So I can… can finish rolling my own."

Josh is shaking. Ashes fall everywhere. Josh bites his lip. He breathes and breathes.

Tyler settles into Josh's side, alternating between sucking on his cigarette and letting Josh suck on his joint. Back and forth, back and forth, Tyler cries, and Josh cries with him, always with him. They're together, ashes and flares and all.

The thunder is monstrous. Josh closes his eyes. Tyler says, "You can't spell 'wedding' without _D_."

It hurts so much, so badly, but Josh laces his fingers with Tyler's. Cigarette smoke, cigarette smoke, Josh says, "Yeah."

*

They can't sleep. They listen to the rain and hold each other. Tyler is using Josh as a pillow tonight, Josh's hands a barely there pressure to cradle Tyler's hips. Tyler's sore. Josh attempts to rub it all away, but his hands went numb five minutes ago.

They can't sleep. Josh raises his hand. He watches his fingers tremble in the flash of lightning. "Wanna tell me more about… being a demiboy?"

"I don't feel as if I'm completely a boy," Tyler says. "I'm something more—an embodiment of something… powerful."

Josh doesn't know what that means. "Oh."

"Rub my back?"

Josh tries.

Tyler says, "I can pretend to be you and play the drums. It's a slower song, right? I can drum along to that."

"You said we were good on rent."

"Maybe I think we need to see a doctor."

"Okay."

In the morning, after Tyler smokes his cigarette with more marijuana than tobacco, he sits at Josh's drum kit and taps, taps, taps. Josh is damp from his after-jog shower. He sits on the carpet and listens to the snares and the bass reverberate through the spare bedroom. It's a pleasant sound. It's a _Tyler_ sound.

Josh closes his eyes and lets Tyler send the client the audio track.

"Ka-ching-ching-ching!" Tyler sings that night, in bed, joint in his mouth. "Do you hear the song of the life-saving bling?" He doesn't spill the ashtray on the keyboard. He's careful. He's shaking. He's, he's, he's—

Tyler's crying. Laptop now under the bed, Tyler sits with his elbows on his knees and the joint between his fingers. He's crying. He's crying. "Josh," he says, "I don't think the pot's helping anymore."

On the other side of the bed, warm and forever fuzzy, Josh floats. He says, "Doctor, doctor."

Tyler wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands. "What?"

"Mama called the doctor," Josh says, "and the doctor said, 'No more monkeys jumping on the bed!'"

Weakly, Tyler laughs. Shoulders going up and shoulders going down, the laugh leaving his throat is broken. "Yeah."

After stubbing out his joint, he covers Josh completely, chest to chest, hips to hips. The pillow becomes a rest. Tyler burrows his face into the casing and doesn't raise his head for the remainder of the night.

*

In place of their jog, Josh and Tyler consider their trip to the doctor's office as their exercise. They swing their legs, pendulums, as they wait. Blue walls, yellow chairs, Josh tightens his wrist braces and ignores the insistent poking in his side.

"Josh," Tyler whispers, digging in his elbow and gesturing toward the old children's book in his hands. "Beren _stein_ or Beren _stain_?"

Josh sees the doctor first. He tries to swing his legs, but it hurts without the braces on them.

"It's getting worse," Josh says, and later, Tyler repeats. "I think I need something."

Back in the waiting room, they exit at the same time, clutching their coats and shaking, struggling.

Tyler drove them here. He helps Josh to the car. Josh limps, not wearing his braces. He's trying.

"What's your… prognosis?" Tyler furrows his brow. "Did I use that word right?"

"Gotta go to the hospital tomorrow," Josh says. "I'm getting put on tocilizumab. It's, uh, a monthly treatment, intravenously."

Tyler blinks.

"Also, gotta drive by the pharmacy. They're giving me oxycodone, too, as a precaution… if the pain gets too much between tocilizumab treatments."

"Shit." Tyler shakes his head and fiddles with the radio. "I just opted for acupuncture."

*

The last days of October are patched together with what Josh considers the best days of his life.

He isn't in pain, and what pain he is in is manageable by lying on a heating pad as he falls asleep each night. The side effects of the tocilizumab aren't too bad—he sniffs a lot, has to keep tissues by the bed. Tyler doesn't mind the cold-like symptoms. He appreciates Josh being able to jerk him off without the aid of a wrist brace.

Even with the oxycodone in the house, Josh doesn't take them. He hides them, has them locked away. A heating pad is good. A heating pad is all that's needed.

Tyler's acupuncture seems to have helped, too. Josh sat with him throughout the session, smiling, content to not have to rub his knuckles. He couldn't wait for Tyler's pain to alleviate like his own.

It comes in November. Tyler runs, Tyler jumps, Tyler dances around the apartment. He's free. He doesn't have to drum for Josh anymore. He doesn't smoke four cigarettes a day anymore. He's at peace.

But this is November.

When it's December, Josh notices the locked box under his side of the bed isn't locked. He doesn't know how long it's been unlocked, but he doesn't care to check the contents.

When it's January, he'll check the contents. When it's January, he'll sit by the unlocked box and hold his head in his hands and pray and pray and pray.

But that's in January. It's November. Josh doesn't know what's going to happen in January.

*

Josh should have realized something was going on when Tyler stopped running with him.

Josh should have realized something was going on when Tyler started to furiously write.

Josh should have realized something was going on when Tyler didn't want to be touched.

Josh should have realized something was going on when Tyler slept all the time.

Josh should have realized something was going on when Tyler began to complain of abdominal pain.

But Josh didn't.

*

It's November. It's Thanksgiving. Tyler's mom cooks, and Tyler helps. She says, "You're feeling better," and he says, "Loads."

Tyler says, "I don't hurt anymore. I feel at ease. I feel…"

"Yeah," she says.

"Good," Josh finishes, because he's getting a Coke from the fridge for Tyler's sister. "He feels good."

" _He_ feels good." Tyler points at Josh, finger wiggling, playful, teasing. "We're both good."

"That's good," Tyler's mom says. She means it. "I'm glad you two are getting better." She means it. She will be screaming in January.

Josh and Tyler hold hands under the table. They smile. They're getting better. They're good.

*

Josh doesn't need his braces to jog.

"Aren't you coming with me?" Josh asks. He zips his jacket. "You're not dressed for jogging."

"Not coming," Tyler says. He's on the couch, laptop on the cushion over, notebook in his lap. He's in short sleeves and not wearing pants.

"Well, gimme your phone, so I can get some steps in for your eggs."

"Okay."

Day after day, Josh doesn't need Tyler to jog either.

*

It's December. It's Tyler's birthday.

Josh has a cold that isn't a cold. Tyler hasn't stayed awake long enough for Josh to sing to him.

Two days from now, Josh sits next to Tyler and shakes him until Tyler stirs, until Tyler's eyes open, until Tyler's eyes stay open.

"Wha'?"

"You okay, dude?"

"M'fine." Tyler's on a plane.

"Need to stay hydrated. Are you hungry?"

"Just ge'me some water."

Tyler's on the floor, on Josh's side of the bed, when Josh returns. "Gotta take it easy," Josh says. "I don't think you've gotten up since—"

Tyler doesn't speak until he's swallowed two mouthfuls of water. "I've been up. I haven't pissed the bed."

Josh picks at his nails. "Hey, do we… do you…?"

"No." Water bottle resting against his thigh, Tyler rubs his eyes. His chest is heaving. It's as if he has run for miles.

"Sleep some more," Josh suggests. "I'll give you your birthday present later."

"What was it?"

"Gotta wait." Josh tries to smile. "It's, like—"

"Your _D_."

"Yes, okay."

Josh helps Tyler back into bed. He's a little chilled—cold sweats. Hair stuck to his forehead, pupils dilated, Tyler turns the water bottle in his hands. He's fidgeting, and Josh tells him to go to sleep.

"You've already said that." Tyler's having trouble breathing. He's on the bed, on his knees, touching his chest, his shirt. He's pulling at the collar, touching his mouth, unscrewing the water bottle. "Gimme your heating pad," he says, a hushed whisper. He repeats it louder, and again after that—a scream. His voice cracks. "Gimme your heating pad!"

"Okay, okay, okay." Josh scrambles to find it. It's under the bed. "Here, here—I—" Josh shoves the cord into an outlet.

Tyler pours water over his head. He shakes, water droplets like rain. "I'm going to throw up."

" _What?_ "

Tyler's statement was the warning. He's vomiting, his hands trying to keep it inside, but it's spilling, shoving past, and it goes on his lap, on the bed. Josh's irrational side wants him to sweep Tyler off the bed and force him to the bathroom, but rationality wins; moving Tyler would make more of a mess. Confinement, confinement, Tyler finishes with wet hands and the half-empty water bottle covered with stomach acid. Tyler hasn't eaten. Tyler says, "It burns."

It burns, and it smells. Josh is on his feet, heating pad in a hand, his other hand to his mouth, trying and failing to keep his nostrils clear. Breathe in, breathe in, breathe—Tyler's having trouble breathing. His shoulders go up, up, up, and nothing comes out. Tears comes out. His cheeks stain. Everything's stained. "I, I… I-I-I—"

"It's okay," Josh says, and drops his heating pad to the carpet. "Shi—okay, Ty. Tyler. Look at me."

Tyler's frightened. Lips slimy, dirty fingers digging into sores on his arms, he keeps his words to himself.

"Tyler." Josh is whispering. He doesn't know why. "Take off your clothes. Just put them on the bed."

First his shirt, and then his shorts, and his boxer briefs join them, too. Tyler uses the legs of them to wipe his mouth and his hands.

"Can you stand?" Josh says next. "Can you do that for me?"

Tyler does. He uses palms flat against the bed to push himself from the spoiled sheets. Titter-totter, Tyler spreads his arms to aid in balance.

"Good." Josh walks around the bed. He touches Tyler's back, clammy. "I'm going to prepare a bath for you. Cold water or warm water?" They start toward the bathroom, one step at a time.

Josh thinks Tyler's going to say warm water because he wanted Josh's heating pad. But he says, "Cold," and Josh's fingers curl into the small of Tyler's back.

"Could have told me you—"

"Shut up. I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Are _you_?"

Josh leaves Tyler in the tub, fighting his shivers.

He strips the bed and dumps everything into the washing machine. The water bottle goes into the trash. It doesn't matter. Josh places a new one on the nightstand, the cap's seal already broken.

Green plaid stretches over the mattress. A sizable hole is near the bottom, but it's near the bottom. Josh covers it with the blanket, the comforter, thankfully clean. He's switching out the pillow cases to match the sheets when Tyler enters the bedroom. Pale, dark circles under his eyes, lips red, Tyler asks if he could still use Josh's heating pad.

Josh's back is to Tyler's. He's dressing the bed. "Of course you can."

Tyler gets it after dressing. No sleeves, short shorts, he looks relatively better, save for the obvious blemishes—and the sheared locks on his head.

"You…" Josh doesn't finish.

Tyler lies down, arms above his head, knees to the ceiling. "It was bothering me."

"Oh."

Tyler sleeps. Josh makes sure he's breathing before tossing the sheets in the dryer, switching off the heating pad, and going to sleep, too.

*

In the morning, Josh wakes to the back of Tyler's head. Tyler's on the floor, by Josh's side of the bed, cradling a water bottle. He looks better.

Still—"How are you feeling?" Josh asks. He touches Tyler's scalp, anticipating the strands to wrap around his fingers, protection, but Josh feels velvet. He closes his eyes.

"I'm okay," Tyler admits. He takes another drink, the water dribbling down his chin. "A little hungry. Could you fix me something?"

"Yeah." Josh sits up. He rubs his eyes. "What do you want? I, uh, I think there's some leftover chicken nuggets in the fridge. I could make some fresh fries."

"Waffle fries?"

"Should be some still in the freezer."

Tyler looks at Josh. "Are they dinosaur-shaped?"

"The nuggets? Yes."

Tyler nods, a slow up-and-down motion. "I think I can handle that."

"Cool." Josh leans forward and presses a kiss to Tyler's forehead. "Want 'em in bed?"

"Yeah." Tyler climbs onto the bed, mattress groaning. Josh wraps his arms around Tyler's waist, forgetting Tyler might still be weak, might be sore. He hugs Tyler and scoops Tyler onto his lap, and he ignores Tyler protesting, and he ignores Tyler laughing. He ignores it all in favor of embracing Tyler. Tyler is all the better for it.

"Are you feeling okay?" Tyler teases, and smacks a wet kiss on Josh's cheekbone.

Josh touches Tyler's ass, cups Tyler's ass. The shorts are too short, but they keep Tyler cool. Tyler's thighs are warm. Josh holds them next. He squeezes. "I'm okay. Got a bit of a headache. Stuffy nose."

"Side effects."

"Side effects." Josh kisses Tyler's chin. "Get some rest."

Tyler does just that. If he had hair, it'd be a mess. "What… what are you doing?"

On the plate of chicken nuggets and fries, stuck in the holes of the waffle fries, are six candles. "Happy Birthday to you," Josh sings, careful to not topple the lit candles. "Happy Birthday to you." Tyler covers his mouth. "Happy Birthday, dear Tyler—Happy Birthday to you."

Josh says, "Hurry, blow them out before wax gets everywhere."

Tyler scrambles to sit up, to lean in, to blow, blow, blow.

Josh eases out the candles. "What'd you wish for?"

"Can't tell you that," Tyler says. "It won't come true." He bites off a triceratops' head.

*

It comes true later that night.

Tyler's holding onto the headboard, all of his weight on his heels, as he straddles Josh's hips, as Josh fucks him. Over and over, Josh's hips are quick in succession, going to leave bruises on Tyler's ass. Tyler's head is tossed back, eyes shut, lips parted, and he moans and _moans_.

"Right there, right there, _s-shit_."

White stripes decorate Josh's chest. A bead rolls from the tip of Tyler's cock. "God," Tyler whispers. "Dear God—"

"C'mere," Josh says, "sit on my face. I'll clean you up."

"Thank you." Tyler crawls. "Thank you, _thank you_."

*

Tyler sleeps.

At this point, Josh has _Pokémon GO_ downloaded on his phone, Tyler's account logged in so Josh can have it open on his jogs. He hatches another ten kilometer egg. When Dratini emerges, Josh has to sit on the curb, has to sit and hold his head in his hands, has to sit and breathe.

At home, Tyler sleeps.

Josh showers.

*

"You hatched a Dratini," Josh tells Tyler, once Tyler stirs.

Tyler's sweating. Tyler's delirious. "I spoke with God," he says.

Josh carries him into the bathroom. Tyler's thin enough for Josh to hold him with an arm, balanced on his hip, toes skimming the tile flooring.

Babbling like a baby, Tyler drools on Josh's shoulder. He might be speaking in tongues.

The clothes on his frame are old, smelly. Josh peels them away, mumbling, "Stinky boy." Tyler seems to agree; he smiles.

Lukewarm water is a given. Tyler shivers. He wakes up. "I-I-I think I'm gonna piss myself."

"You're in the tub." Josh rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and reaches for the shampoo bottle.

"Would be better if I was showering. Could piss in the shower."

"You're in the tub." Shampoo squirts into Josh's palm.

Tyler pisses. He shivers again, rubbing his biceps.

"When was the last time you… you, uh…?" Josh furrows his brow. "You…"

"Don't worry about that." Tyler turns his head for Josh to get the shampoo in what little hair he has. "I'm fine."

Josh pries out the detachable shower handle. "I believe you."

*

Josh drums.

Tyler dances.

"I didn't know you liked Bach."

Tyler wraps himself in old bedsheets, head through a ripped-open hole, like a cape, like he's a king. "I am the frost that kills weeds."

Josh purses his lips.

*

Josh drums.

Tyler dances.

"I didn't know you knew ballet."

Tyler's toes are bleeding. He leaps. The landing hurts. Tyler is unscathed. "I am the fall that doesn't kill."

Josh narrows his eyes.

*

Josh drums.

Tyler dances.

"I didn't know you could go days without sleeping."

Eyes black, stubble on his cheeks, choker around his neck, and leggings tight, tight, tight, Tyler bites his cuticle and lets the blood drip onto his notebook paper. "I am eternal."

Josh's lips tremble.

*

Josh doesn't drum.

Tyler dances.

Josh turns off the music. Josh wraps his arms around Tyler's waist. "Baby, you need to chill out. You need to—"

"Don't touch me, don't touch me—"

"I-I'm sorry, I—"

"I'm bleeding. _I'm bleeding_. I'm—"

"Ty, Ty, baby, you're not bleeding." They're in the living room, crouching on the floor. Josh doesn't touch Tyler. His hands hover. "You're not bleeding."

"It's all over me." Tyler covers his face. Josh does the same.

And then, Tyler's laughing.

Josh slides his hands down his face.

Tyler points a teasing finger. "I fucking got you."

"Tyler, tomorrow's Christmas Eve."

"Like I don't know that." He stands, slamming shut the lid of his laptop and hoisting it onto a bony hip.

Josh watches him.

Tyler grabs his notebook next. He stuffs it under his arm, too. "My stomach hurts."

"Nausea?"

"No." Tyler screws his face up. "It's… tight."

"When was the last time you—?"

Tyler groans, loud and drawn out, and goes into the bedroom.

Josh doesn't follow.

*

Tyler sleeps through Christmas Eve.

Josh cleans, wearing a dust mask to keep himself from sneezing more than he already is. He's on the bedroom floor, flashlight on his phone on as he debates whether he should vacuum underneath the bed. Piles of clothes, a bag of Doritos, empty candy wrappers, Josh pulls them all out with his hands. Being quiet is essential to keep Tyler asleep, no matter it's seven in the evening.

Josh drops the wrappers in the trash can and sticks the bag of Doritos in there after realizing they expired a month before. The clothes are dirty—white shirts stained yellow on the pits, shirts with holes and better suited for hair-dye shirts and rags. Regardless, Josh folds and returns them to the clothes hamper.

Back under the bed his phone shines. Pushed to the wall, the light bounces off the lock of the box he was sure he locked, he was sure he always kept locked, but the lock isn't locked, and he pulls out the box now. He doesn't check the contents. He just locks it again. Next month, he'll check. He doesn't check now. He should have checked now.

The mattress shifts. Tyler says, groggy, "I feel bad, Josh."

Josh plucks the dust mask from his face. "How long does the acupuncture last? Maybe you're due for another session?"

Tyler's throwing up again. He doesn't try to go into the bathroom. He doesn't even try to sit up. He vomits all over himself, like a baby, like he's helpless. Josh helps him up, hands on the back of Tyler's head to keep him from choking.

"Did I get you sick?" Josh asks, rhetorical. "I know I'm all… wimpy from the tocilizumab, but… I didn't think you'd get sick, too."

Tyler coughs. "Shut up."

It's a repeat. Tyler pulls off his clothes, Josh prepares a bath and changes the bed sheets, Tyler goes back to sleep, and Josh makes sure he's breathing every hour on the hour.

*

Christmas morning, Josh wakes to Tyler climbing into bed. He has a Red Bull in hand. He looks… he looks…

"Tyler, you can sleep. We don't have to go to my parents'."

Tyler shakes his head. He drinks. "Merry Christmas."

Josh stretches his arm. He means to rub Tyler's thigh, but Tyler moves away from him before skin can touch skin. Ice, ice, Josh says, "Merry Christmas."

Tyler scratches the back of his head.

*

"He's… he's not—"

"I know, Ashley."

Ashley sticks the wand back into the bottle of green nail polish. She swirls it around. "Has he been to a doctor at all?"

"He's…" Josh shakes his head. "We'll think of something." His smile is pathetic. "It's a nice color." He wiggles his fingers.

"Yeah," Ashley says, "it is." She frowns. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

Tyler is in a ball on the living-room sofa, clutching a bottle of wine he designated as his child at the beginning of dinner. The cork is in place. It's vintage.

*

"Hey," Josh says, "I got you a present."

Tyler freezes. He looks up at Josh, eyes wide. Caught in headlights, any sudden movement, any wrong word could cause him to run. Where would he run? Would he come back?

Josh moves. Tyler stands from the bed. Skittish, Tyler says, "You didn't have to get me anything."

"Get back in bed. You need to… stay warm." Josh leaves the bed as Tyler gets in the bed. He has to push clothes aside in order to pull the box from the closet. If not for his monthly treatments, Josh would be crying.

Tyler's under the blankets, curled in a ball again, much like he looked hours before. They had to return the wine. He perks his head at Josh's reappearance, brows coming together at the box in Josh's hands. "Josh, you—"

"You needed a new one." Josh sets Tyler's new laptop on the bed, in the space between them. Tyler pushes himself up to pull it toward him. "I had some extra money from, y'know, drumming."

"From drumming?"

"I'm tutoring now, like you. Well… whatever. If you weren't fucking sleeping all the time, you'd know where I go after my jogs."

"Josh—"

"When was the last time you left the house, Tyler? You don't go out with me anymore. I do the shopping. I do… _everything_. And you sleep."

Tyler has the laptop set in front of him, running his fingers over the keyboard. "I do other things," he mumbles.

"Yeah." Josh picks at his nails. He stops himself before the paint chips. "Just… Here's a new laptop. Answer your emails. Write. We're not in the hole, but we might be if one of us breaks their leg or something."

"That's not going to happen."

"You never know."

"Are you planning on breaking your leg, Josh? Compound fracture? Needing surgery?"

"No. Why would I? No one would be here to help me."

Tyler blinks. "I'm here."

"Yeah, you'd be here, Tyler, but you wouldn't be _here_."

Tyler sniffs. It's different from Josh's sniffs. "Let's play a game." He wipes his eyes. "What words can't you spell with, uh, without a _C_?"

"Tyler, I'm tired."

"Oh, okay." He finds the power button and gently presses it down. "Good night, then."

"Good night."

*

Josh is dying in his dream. Bones breaking, tendons snapping, Josh's body collapses on itself. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.

Strobe lights, a weak flashlight, Josh reaches toward it, but this time it does hurt. His muscles melt. "Please," he says, and he wakes.

Tyler's missing, and his laptop is turned to Josh, the screen dim, the screen on Tyler's email. He's currently replying to someone. _I'm sorry for not getting back to you sooner, I_

Josh hears crying. He scurries from the bed and falls to his knees. He picks himself up, and then he's scurrying again.

He finds Tyler in the bathroom, sat on the toilet with an arm wrapped around his stomach and his hand covering his face. Pink, blotchy, Tyler has been crying for a while. It leads Josh to assume he frequented the bathroom for even longer.

"Baby, what's wrong?"

Tyler isn't embarrassed. He drops his hand and wraps his other arm around his stomach. Cracking a smile, Tyler says, "You can't spell 'constipation' without a _C_."

Josh suspected. Josh shakes his head. "I think we got, like, Milk of Magnesia in the kitchen. Want me to get you some of that?"

"Please." Tyler pushes his hands to his face.

"Don't strain yourself. Might tear something."

"I've just been sitting here."

"Right." Josh gives Tyler a parting look before going into the kitchen. The blue bottle's kept in a cabinet, tucked away behind the Tylenol and allergy pills. Josh doesn't remember buying it. It must have been here since Josh moved in, during a time where Tyler was alone, dealing with everything by himself. "God," Josh sighs, and turns the bottle in his hands to read the label. He grabs a set of measuring spoons and fills a glass with water. On the way to the bathroom, Josh shakes the bottle.

Tyler's picking at his nails, head raising at Josh's arrival. "Hey."

Josh sets the glass of water by Tyler's feet. "Gotta drink that entire thing after taking this."

Tyler wrinkles his nose.

"I know," Josh says. Above the sink to catch any spills, Josh pours the correct dosage. Bottle kept in the sink, Josh carefully walks over to Tyler. "Open up."

Tyler reluctantly does.

Josh pinches Tyler's nose shut and tips the laxative in Tyler's mouth.

Tyler immediately gags. Josh drops the spoon and slaps his hand over Tyler's mouth. "Keep it down."

Fresh tears well up in Tyler's eyes. Josh feels liquid hit his palm.

Josh touches the back of Tyler's head with his free hand and tilts Tyler's head toward the ceiling. " _Keep it down_."

Tyler isn't here.

Josh cries and removes his hand. "Yeah? Gotta drink the water now."

Tyler blinks. He bends at the waist to pick up the glass. Josh takes the spoons to the sink. There he screws on the bottle's lid and washes his hands and the measuring device. He doesn't know why he continues to cry.

A third of the water down, Tyler asks, "When is this going to… kick in?"

"Anywhere between thirty minutes and six hours."

"Shit."

"Literally."

"Will you stay with me?" Tyler asks next, running his thumb along the side of the glass.

"Gonna stay in here until you…?"

"I don't want to go to sleep and crap my pants."

Josh unscrews and screws the lid, unscrews, screws. "Good point."

"Your nails," Tyler says, "they're pretty."

"Thanks. My sister did them."

Tyler pauses. He says, "Can you paint my toes like that?"

"Right now?"

"Right now."

"Okay."

In an hour, Tyler's toes are green, and he's in immense pain. Josh's knees go numb from how long he stands on them, unable to bring himself to leave Tyler. Josh hugs Tyler and rubs his back. He tells him, "It'll be over soon."

Tyler sobs into Josh's neck. Nothing he says is coherent.

Josh tells him, "It'll be over soon."

"It hurts," Tyler whispers.

"Hang in there," Josh whispers. "It'll be over soon."

Tyler runs on empty an hour later. Josh slides Tyler's laptop under the bed and tucks him in. They don't talk.

Josh sprays Febreze throughout the apartment and closes the door behind him. In their room, in their own private world, there's no such thing as endless pain. There's only nighttime and rolling paper.

Despite being tucked in moments ago, Tyler is sat up, slouching into the headboard and rolling a cigarette. His fingers are shaking as he fights to roll the paper.

Josh sits next to him, taking over. He sniffs. Tyler sniffs with him. "Want me to light it for you?"

Tyler whispers, "Please."

Josh does.

Tyler whispers, "Thank you."

Cracking a window, Josh can smell rain. He rubs his knuckles out of habit.

On his back, he lies and struggles to keep his eyes open. Tyler smokes his cigarette and allows himself to cry, to deconstruct. Josh doesn't understand why Tyler's on a thin wire, walking on tiptoe, and Josh doesn't understand why Tyler is terrified of the days to come.

He'll understand in January.

Tonight, it's December, and Tyler says, "God spoke with me again."

Josh finally lets his eyes close.

"He walked into the bathroom with faded hair and an old t-shirt and told me not to strain."

Josh doesn't react; he doesn't know how.

*

When Josh wakes, Tyler is smoking. Disorientating, Josh thinks he only slept for a few minutes, but the light outside sets him right. He's tired, though, and he burrows beneath the pillows. Cheek against the bed sheets, he can hear Tyler laugh as clear as day. "Yeah. Me, too." Tyler touches Josh's back, his shirt tugged up during his sleep. Slow circles, Tyler rubs. "It feels like I haven't slept any."

"What's stopping you from sleeping the day away?"

Tyler pauses. "I need to get my sleep schedule right again."

Josh raises his head. "Tyler, you practically shit out your entire digestive system last night. You're allowed to take a day to recover."

Tyler turns to stub his cigarette in the ashtray, on the nightstand. "Will you stay with me?"

"As long as you need me to stay."

"Y'know, spending a whole day in bed with you should get me all hot and bothered, but I'm actually a little repulsed at the idea of anything going into my ass right now." Tyler stretches onto his side and tugs the blankets around them, their shoulders.

"Suppository."

"I'm okay."

Josh leans forward, elbows pressing into the mattress, and kisses Tyler.

Tyler kisses him back. "I'm more than okay now."

Josh kisses Tyler again.

"I'm great."

Josh kisses Tyler again and again.

"I'm fantastic. I'm on top of the world."

"Can I hold you?" Josh asks.

"Yes." Tyler nods. "I… Thank you for asking."

Tyler's stomach is concave. Josh wraps his arms around Tyler's waist. Cool, calm, concave, Tyler is in recovery.

*

For a week, Tyler seems fine. He eats light meals and drinks plenty of water. He rolls cigarettes and doesn't spill the ashtray over his new laptop.

Tyler occupies the sofa when he doesn't frequent the bed. Josh sits with him as often as possible, touching up his nail polish, curving hands to rub his calves, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.

Tyler grinds the tip of his cigarette into the ashtray, curling his toes, smiling. He's smiling a lot now. "Wanna help me with this inquiry?"

"'Inquiry'." Josh drops onto the couch cushion on Tyler's right. "What sort of _inquiry_?"

"Put your arm around my shoulders."

Josh does.

Tyler moves the ashtray onto the arm of the sofa. "Could you read this short story for me?"

"What for?"

"They're having trouble forming a plot. They want to know if this story can stand on its own."

"Is this the same story you told me about before?" Josh scoots closer, and Tyler angles the laptop toward him.

"Yeah. This is their second draft. Even after all the revisions and rewriting, they could only focus on their characters." Tyler glances over at Josh, digging his teeth into his lip. "I'm about to tell them it's okay, but I wanted your thoughts."

"Okay. What questions am I gonna answer by reading this?"

"Is a plot necessary, or do they have a plot that's not obvious on the surface? Does—?"

"Sorry for interrupting, but can you roll me a cigarette?"

"Thought nicotine didn't agree with you?" Tyler pulls out a sheet of rolling paper anyway and his baggie of tobacco.

"It doesn't, but I'm not sore, and you smelling like an ashtray is more irresistible than I would think."

Tyler smiles, a slight upturn of the corner of his mouth. "Lucky you, not being in pain." Cigarette rolled, Tyler passes that, the ashtray, and his lighter to Josh.

"Dude, where are you hurting?" Josh flicks the lighter.

"Stomach. It's fucking killer."

Josh notices then how much Tyler has held his stomach today and the past few days. He frowns. "Have you—?"

"Not constipated. It's bad, though. Look, I'm shaking." Tyler holds up his hand.

Josh takes it. He laces their fingers together. "Is it just your stomach?"

"Yeah."

"A bug, then. It'll be a few days until you're back on your feet."

Tyler accepts that answer. "Read," he says, and settles down, his head in Josh's lap. Stray ash sticks to his hair, but he doesn't mind.

It takes a little over fifteen minutes for Josh to finish. Tyler's eyes are shut, and his breathing is labored. He's sweating, hot. "Done?"

"Yeah." Josh wipes his eyes.

"Does the story stand on its own?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it does. The ending is—"

"I know."

"And the foreshadowing in the beginning with the—"

"I know."

"Email them back." Josh runs his fingers through Tyler's hair, not enough to grab. "Tell them it's okay. Tell them it's amazing."

"Later." Tyler shivers. A violent shake, his shoulders push his laptop an inch forward. Josh catches it. He closes the lid and places it on the floor. The carpet is kind, but falling onto it, no matter the distance, wouldn't be kind at all.

"Are you cold?"

" _Yes_."

The throw blanket on the back of the sofa serves them in this way. Josh makes Tyler a burrito, even folding it underneath his feet. "Get some sleep."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Sleep?" Josh touches Tyler's shoulder. "Well, uh… Watch TV. Try to relax. If you need anything, I'm here."

Tyler doesn't stop shaking. It's not a wonder as to why his muscles are sore in the morning. He says, "Recovery, right? It'll be fine in a few days."

"Right." Josh kisses Tyler's forehead.

*

Tyler goes jogging with Josh. Tyler walks. Tyler watches an egg hatch into Bulbasaur. "Oh, my God," Tyler whispers.

When they're home, Josh watches Tyler evolve a few Pokémon—a couple Pidgeys, a Kakuna, and three Eevees. Josh hasn't seen Tyler this happy in a long time.

As he's putting up the last of the laundry, Josh catches Tyler on the floor, by his side of the bed. Basket on his hip, Josh says, "What're you doing?"

Tyler scrambles to his feet, notebook tucked under his arm, pen in hand. "I-I-I was just check—I dropped my pen." Tyler holds out his arm, the pen in his hand like a harpoon.

"Okay." Josh steps into their closet. "What did you want to do for New Year's?"

Tyler sinks onto the bed. He flips to a new page in his notebook. "Can we stay in?"

"You read my mind."

Leaving the laundry basket on the floor, Josh gets into bed. He fumbles for the TV remote. "Need the window open?"

Tyler's writing. _i am divine—i know this as if it were a fact told in history books—and yet, i haven't felt holy for some time._ "Why would I need a window open?" He doesn't look at Josh.

"You've been smoking more. I guess I—"

"Oh." Tyler shakes his head. "No, I'm fine. Thank you." He caps his pen. "I think I… like… Could I have your heating pad?"

Josh pulls it out as Tyler shoves his notebook and pen beneath the bed. "Could we share? My back's a little tense."

"Sure. It's yours to begin with, you know."

"I know, but I want you to get better."

"I'll be okay."

They lie down, Tyler on his way to climbing on top of Josh. He presses his cheek to Josh's shoulder, propping himself up to watch late-night news.

Tyler says, "You're in pain."

"Not too bad. It's getting close to my next tocilizumab treatment. Don't want to break into those pills they gave me."

Tyler stiffens. "Don't."

Josh laughs—tries to, at least. It comes out more as a gasp of disbelief. "I wasn't going to, Tyler. I don't want to take them. Don't worry."

Tyler deflates. "I won't."

Quiet, then, Tyler, "When's y-your, uh, tocilizumab treatment?"

"I'd need to check to be sure, but I think it's the eleventh of January. Why? You wanna come with me?"

Tyler shrugs. "Just wondering."

*

They try to have sex on New Year's Eve.

It isn't penetrative. Tyler is a mess throughout, and not a good mess. His nose runs, his eyes water, and his limbs shiver, shiver, and shiver.

Josh hugs him, holds him, and his hips roll into Tyler's hips. Tyler makes a mess, and Josh cleans Tyler with his mouth and a damp washcloth.

"That feels nice," Tyler says, head lolling onto a pillow.

Josh wets the washcloth and squeezes out the excess onto Tyler's chest. The beads pool on Tyler's sternum, littering the dark skin. Josh rubs his thumb into Tyler's nipple, the nub already hard from fading arousal.

"I love you," Josh says.

Tyler sniffs. He swallows. "I love you, too."

*

It's January.

It's January.

"It's January." Tyler rolls a cigarette and lets the moon wash out his face. "It's a new year."

Josh smiles, on his way to dreaming dreams he won't remember. "Yes, it is."

*

It's January.

Tyler is in recovery.

But sometimes recovery can lead to relapse.

*

Josh massages his knuckles between dressing. Stepping into pants—rub—pulling on his shirt—rub—shoving down a beanie—rub—Josh takes his time. His joints don't wait. His joints aren't on a schedule.

"This is the fifth time I heard you sigh." Tyler's on the bed, still in his pajamas. A cigarette in his mouth, laptop and notebook in front of him, it's a familiar sight. It's a comfortable sight.

"I'm sorry," Josh says.

"Maybe you shouldn't go out today."

"I won't actually be drumming," he says. "Just gotta look over this kid. Make sure his grip is good, wrist movements, that sort of thing. I'm also showing him how to properly clean his cymbals." Josh makes two fists. "Won't be gone that long. I'll be back before you know it."

Tyler hums.

"What're you up to?"

"Emails."

"Do you need help?"

"Not right now." Tyler looks up, and his eyes are two dark mud puddles. "I'll see you later, okay? Maybe we could get some pizza when you come home?"

"That sounds good to me." Josh doesn't miss the way Tyler's breath escapes in a shaky exhale at the kiss to his cheek. "Baby, you know you can tell me if something's wrong. Does it hurt? We can go to the doctor. We have a little extra money. We can forget the acupuncture. We can get you the best doctor. They'll treat you well. They'll make you feel better."

Tyler doesn't bother wiping the tears from his face. "I'm f-f-fine, Josh. It's… This story I just read, it was really… It got to me."

"Try to forget about it. Finish what you're doing, and rest. I know it's been hard for you to sleep lately. Smoke all the pot you want if it'll help." Tyler laughs at that. Josh rubs the top of Tyler's head. "Like I said, I'll be back before you know it."

"I love you."

Josh kisses Tyler's nose. "Want me to hatch a few eggs while I drive?"

Tyler is bright. "Please."

*

Josh is gone for an hour—two hours—no more than three.

It isn't long. He's back before Tyler knows it.

*

Josh comes home. Stepping into the front door allows himself to drop any and all façades he put up for strangers. He's limping. He wants to lie down and bask in his heating pad. Tyler can order the pizza online. They'll be set for the night.

In the bed, lying with his face in a pillow, Tyler wears his oversized sleep t-shirt and a choker around his neck. No pants, just the hint of a pair of boxer briefs peeking beneath the hem of his shirt, Tyler made himself suitable for bed. His laptop is out of sight, only his notebook left behind, which Josh doesn't blame him for having. Tyler's mind is always running. He's always thinking, creating. There's blood on the sheet of paper—dry. That's the first hint of something being wrong.

The second is Tyler's lack of response to Josh entering the room. Recently, Tyler hasn't slept, and if he managed to fall asleep, he would wake at any noises. Josh tells him, "Hi," when he walks—limps—into the room, and Tyler doesn't raise his head.

Josh tries again, this time a little louder, but to no avail.

"Did you really smoke so much you put yourself into a coma?" Josh jokes, because he doesn't smell marijuana. He laughs, and it sounds wrong.

Everything is wrong.

"Tyler?"

Tyler doesn't move.

Josh shakes him. "Ty." He pushes, shoves, rolls Tyler onto his side.

Eyes shut, lashes fanned onto his cheekbones, lips parted—blue, blue, blue—Tyler should be sleeping, but he isn't, he _isn't_. Tyler's lips are blue, and Josh shakes him and shakes him and screams for him, screams at him, "Come on, Tyler, this isn't funny. Tyler, Tyler, Tyler—Tyler—Tyler—"

Josh steps out of the room. He touches his mouth. He walks into the room. "Tyler."

Tyler is quiet.

Josh steps out of the room. He tugs on his nose ring. He walks into the room and stands over Tyler. "Tyler."

Tyler is silent.

Josh blinks. Josh blinks again. "Tyler."

Tyler is— _let's think of words you can't spell without a_ D _._

Josh's phone burns in his pocket. He fishes it out, knuckles on fire, eyes on fire, it's all on fire.

He dials, trembles, dials again. "Hello, hello, hey—I need an ambulance. I, I, I just came home, and my boyfriend's not responsive. His lips are blue, and he, he, he—"

Josh closes his eyes— _let's think of words you can't spell without a_ D _—'die'._

Josh swallows down vomit _—yes, 'die'._

Everything burns. "I think he might be—he—"

Josh gets down on his knees. He crawls and grabs Tyler's wrist. Lukewarm, lukewarm, clammy, Josh presses down two fingers and waits, in his own world.

Tyler isn't here.

Tyler is— _good._

"I can feel a pulse," Josh says. "I can feel a pulse. It's faint. But he's not—he's not breathing right. He's—he's gurgling?" Josh pushes Tyler's head to the side. Lips wet, lips blue, Tyler might start snoring. Tyler doesn't snore. The gurgling stops. Josh says, "He stopped making noises. What does that mean?"

For the first time since dialing emergency services, Josh can hear hope, can feel hope. "I'm going to guide you through CPR now. Can you lift him? He needs to be on a flat surface."

"He's on the bed. I need—he needs—"

"Once you have him on the floor, I'm going to need you to start chest compressions. Do you know the song 'Stayin' Alive'? Do you know the beat?"

"I'm a drummer."

"Yes."

Josh puts the phone on speaker. He scoops Tyler into his arms and delicately sets him on the carpet. Tyler is pale. Tyler might wake up at any moment.

The operator asks Josh to clarify his address, and he does with a shaky voice. He looks down at Tyler, Tyler with dry blood on his nails and skin rubbed raw from the cheap plastic of the choker around his neck. Josh eases the choker from his neck and flings it away. Josh says, "I have rheumatoid arthritis. I don't think I can—"

"You have to try, sir."

"Fuck." Josh presses his hands to Tyler's chest. His wrists are weak. He says, "I can't do it. I can't do it."

"Do your best. I'm here. I'm here to help you."

_Faster—feels—full—faster, faster—_

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

"Sir, please, calm down. Listen to my voice. It's going to be okay. Breathe in…"

— _fantastic—fortunate—fun—forever, forever—_

"Breathe out…"

— _fear—fight—_

"The paramedics should be there, sir. Are they there? Please, can you tell me—?"

Josh says, "They're here, they're here, they're here," because they're in the doorway, starting toward him, toward Tyler, and Josh's phone ends the call, and he watches a paramedic pull open Tyler's eyelids. Tyler's pupils are small, narrow, and if possible, his lips are purple now. Josh watches. He can't move. He doesn't understand. Everything goes too fast. He doesn't understand, he doesn't—

"What are you doing?"

One of the paramedics is inching toward Tyler, something in their latex hand, shoving that something into Tyler's nostril.

"What are you giving him?" Josh thinks it's poison.

The paramedic pushes down, sprays, and removes their hand. "Naloxone," they say.

— _free._

Tyler opens his eyes. He doesn't speak. He looks at the paramedics, and he looks at Josh. He doesn't look away from Josh.

"We need to take him to the hospital. We have about forty minutes before he passes out again."

Tyler's fingers twitch. Like a fish out of water, his hand slides across the carpet to touch Josh.

Josh wants to crush that hand, but he doesn't. He pats it instead. He holds it instead. "Will he be okay?"

Tyler closes his eyes.

"If we take him now, he will be."

*

"I need to call his mom. I'll be… We'll be… We'll be there."

Josh watches Tyler, follows Tyler, and holds Tyler's hand until the paramedics cart him through the front door and away, away, away. Tyler doesn't talk.

"You can ride in the back," a paramedic says, the one who breathed life into Tyler's nose.

"I can't. I need to tell his mom. We'll drive there together."

"We'll see you there."

Josh tries not to limp. He has to be strong. Tyler is—Tyler is—

"Mrs. Joseph—Kelly, yeah, yeah, sorry—Tyler is—Tyler is—Tyler is in the hospital. He—"

Josh's head hurts. He doesn't listen. He doesn't want to listen. "I don't know. I don't know. They gave him—the paramedics—they gave him naloxone?"

Scream, scream, Josh can't tell if it's his screams or hers.

"What are you talking about?" Josh paces the bedroom, makes his rounds. "We don't have heroin in the house."

"He's overdosed on some kind of opioid, Josh. Narcan, naloxone—Tyler overdosed."

Josh floats. It's not a good float. On his knees, on his hands, Josh is on auto pilot. The locked box under his side of the bed is unlocked. For once, for the first time since he filled his prescription, Josh picks up the bottle of Tyler's personal heaven, of painkillers, of oxycodone.

It's empty, the lid not even properly screwed on.

It's empty. It's empty.

"It's empty."

"What's empty?"

Josh's mouth gapes like a fish. "M-my oxycodone prescription."

"Well, there it is."

Josh thinks the floor is opening around him. "I'll be there soon, pick you up. We'll go see him."

"Will he be okay? Did they say?"

"I think so."

Josh sticks his phone in his pocket. His head goes in his hands. He stands. He doesn't walk. He walks anyway.

Before leaving the apartment, Josh grabs Tyler's notebook from the bed and stuffs it into the glove department. He throws a pair of jeans into the backseat.

His fingers curl and squeeze and turn his knuckles white against the steering wheel. His knuckles hurt. His chest hurts. He needs pot, he needs heat, he needs _Tyler_.

"Those were my pills," Josh says to the red light. "My pills… my pills, those were _my pills_. I did this to him. I… I did… dear God, please, please." Josh wipes his eyes, his nose. "I did this to him."

*

Tyler's eyes are open. He doesn't talk. He has a tube down his throat.

His mom can't look at him. Josh looks enough for the two of them.

"Please take that out," his mom says from behind her hands. "I don't want to see my son like this."

"When he's stabilized," someone says.

Josh stares at Tyler, and Tyler stares at him. Tyler isn't here, not yet. Eventually he closes his eyes. Somehow it's easier to sit now.

*

Josh stays with Tyler for the first night, only leaving the room to take Tyler's mom home and go to the bathroom. He doesn't know why. Tyler won't know he's gone.

With all the guilt possible eating his guts, Josh manages to go outside and ask a stranger in the smoking area for a cigarette. It's strange to draw puffs from a cigarette manufactured and commercialized, but he needs it. He allows himself to succumb to the flares. It's January, it's cold, and he has to go to the doctor in a few days.

Josh takes out Tyler's notebook from the glove box and holds it to his chest. Tyler won't be released tonight. Josh will stay as long as Tyler stays.

When Josh returns, the tube is out of Tyler's mouth, and Tyler is fast asleep, tucked in a ball, blankets pulled to his chin. That means he's stable. That means Josh can stop hating himself for a minute, maybe two.

Josh leans over Tyler and presses a kiss to his temple. Pimples and stray brow hairs pepper Josh's lips, but it's just a reminder that Tyler is alive. Tyler's lips aren't blue anymore. They're pink, a little chapped, and parted to let small snores escape. Normal and usual, Josh kisses Tyler's cheek, his jaw. Tyler stirs. He's too deep in dreams.

The visitor chairs in the emergency room are uncomfortable, but Josh makes do. Curling up into himself, knees as a shelf, Josh flips through Tyler's notebook. Starting from the beginning is as much eerie as looking through old photographs. On the base level, it's interesting—cool, even—but delving deeper shows something sinister and… depressing, almost—particularly when Tyler begins to write about his divine state of being. Josh saw peeks of this before: _i am divine—i know this as if it were a fact told in history books—and yet, i haven't felt holy for some time._ This fascination may have reached fruition at Tyler's revelation of being less of a man, of being "something more". He said he was something more. Being under the influence helped him discover just what exactly was that _something more_ , but it fell flat. Tyler thought himself a demigod, and that makes Josh want to rip these pages of his manifesto to pieces, so no human nor otherworldly being—to Tyler's mind, no doubt—will read.

It doesn't matter if Josh's disgust ranges from all planes of reality. He continues to read—to witness his demiboy's delusions.

Not amusing at all, and yet, Josh finds himself laughing. He has to laugh. He has to do _something_. He's crumbling, deteriorating. Tyler's raving about demons poisoning his insides, forcing him to purge his immortality. _when i am one step ahead, the claws and fangs find me again. they force the acid valleys in my stomach to break the dams i built with care and my own two hands. my fingers are rubbed raw, my nails are breaking, and my skin has become a cesspool for mountains and snow-white peaks._

Josh finds Tyler's musings about finding God. This information isn't new. Tyler said to Josh on more than one occasion he talked to God and met Him—met _Josh_. _i spoke to Him today. His hair has faded, and i don't know if it's within my place to tell Him so. i am afraid the demons have spoken to Him and told Him of my wavering mind. i am not fully human and not fully spirit. i don't know what i am, and i fear my belief in Him is holding me back. i want to expunge myself of faith and welcome the freedom of forever. i want to be free. i don't want to be in pain anymore. He is in pain. not physically. not anymore. but i see the way He looks at me, and i despise it. it soaks my joints and makes me ill. the demons urge my acids to show themselves, but i keep them inside. He has cleaned me, baptized me in cold water and fluffy towels. i don't want Him to worry, but i am losing my grip._

Tyler moves. He rolls onto his back. Josh watches him shiver and pull the blanket tighter around his body. He's awake. Josh continues reading.

Near the end, the last entry, with the latest addition of dry blood spotting the surface, is Tyler's denouement.

_everything is peaceful. i didn't remember what it felt like. all i could remember was pain. all i could remember was a fog, heat, nausea. i'm in pain now; my stomach hasn't been in this much pain since the demons stamped their feet and commanded their dogs to chew on my intestines. i am lying in bed, ready for His arrival, ready for my comeuppance. He will berate me with his tired eyes and unshaven face, and He will tackle me, and i will be reborn in the form of dust and faint lip prints and sharp teeth—not fangs, never fangs._

_i am in pain. i dug my fangs into my finger just to see if my pain is artificial or metaphorical, and it hurt. i bleed and bleed and bleed._

_as i gazed at my life source, i realized i am not of eternality. i am not even a man. i am merely a vessel for pain—and nothing will help. i am deserving of this. i am pain itself. nothing curbs it. i want and want and, again, i realize i will not receive. i am nothing. i am sexless, genderless, lifeless. i will die, and i will die, and i will die. i will die, and nothing will happen. i will die, and i will not know what comes after. i will be nothing. i will continue to be nothing._

_please God, forgive me._

Tyler is awake. He's staring at Josh. He doesn't talk.

Josh wipes his eyes. "Shut your eyes."

Tyler does.

*

Josh doesn't sleep well. He has nightmares of waking to find Tyler completely blue. Every time he opens his eyes, Josh enters a staring contest with the heart rate monitor. The beeping is no more a home than Tyler's bent knees to the fluorescent lights. He's having trouble staying asleep, as well, wrapping his arms around his torso and stubbornly keeping his eyes fixated on the blanket. Not even attempting to sleep, Tyler lies there, and Josh stares at him.

At least it's more morning than night now.

Josh stands from the chair, slapping the notebook onto the hard plastic seat. "Can you talk?" he asks, and Tyler rubs his biceps beneath the blanket. "Gotta work with me here." Josh rubs his eyes. "Does your throat hurt? They had a damn tube stuck down it."

"Just a li'l sore," Tyler whispers.

"Then, you can listen to me lecture."

Tyler stretches out his legs and moves them to the side, giving Josh ample room to join him on the bed. He doesn't want to be lectured; that much is clear from the defiant look on his face.

Josh presses his thumb into the knuckles on his left hand, digging into his fingers. "Actually, I'm not going to lecture. You don't need to be lectured. You're an adult. You can handle the consequences of your own stupid actions."

"Sounds like a lecture," Tyler croaks, with a small smile.

Josh touches Tyler's knee. Tyler flinches and doesn't relax his leg until Josh's fingers turn in clockwise circles. "That feels good," Tyler says.

"Yeah, it does." Josh chews on the inside of his cheek. "Hey, Tyler, can I ask you something? It's about what you wrote."

"Don't take anything what I said seriously. I was out of my fucking mind. I'd rather not think about the nonsensical things I wrote."

Josh goes counterclockwise now. "I have to ask."

"It wasn't a suicide attempt, okay? It was… It wasn't anything. It was stupid, like you said. Stupid actions. I was stupid."

"Wanting the pain to stop isn't stupid. You should have told me as soon as you started hurting again. We could have gone to the doctor and actually do something to help you—not that, like, acupuncture isn't good." Josh shakes his head. "You could have told me you were taking my pills, or at least told me you were thinking about taking them. I would have given them to you and monitored the doses and—"

"That's illegal," Tyler mumbles.

"Well, maybe you wouldn't be in here if I knew what you were doing." Josh squeezes Tyler's knee. Tyler squirms.

"This sounds like a lecture."

"Fuck you. I didn't even think this was a suicide attempt until you brought that up."

Tyler frowns. "What were you going to ask me then?"

Josh breathes. He counts his breaths. "What did you mean when you said you were 'sexless, genderless, lifeless'?"

"Exactly what it says on the tin."

Josh scoots closer and rubs Tyler's other knee. "Um. Agender. Is… is that the word you were looking for?"

Tyler's chin wobbles. His bottom lip trembles. He furiously bites into it. "I don't know," he mouths.

"Because that's okay, if it is. And it makes sense, I think. You always thought you weren't completely a boy. Maybe that 'something more' isn't something holy, but something a bit more…" Josh shrugs.

"Incomplete," Tyler finishes.

"You're not incomplete, Tyler."

"I'm broken."

"Shut up."

"My body's worthless. It hates me, and I hate it."

"Tyler—"

"I'm agender, Josh, because my gender is my pain. It's all I know, and it's all I will ever know."

"Gender doesn't work like that. That's not what—"

"Please respect me, Josh. I need some support right now."

Josh presses his lips together.

Tyler cracks a smile. He laughs. Josh closes his eyes. "I know that's not what 'agender' means. I'm being dramatic. I'm in _pain_. Woe is me!"

Josh actually laughs. "I love you; you know that, right? I love you a lot."

Tyler has color in his cheeks, and it's a beautiful sight. "Love you, too." He wiggles his toes. "I do think I'm agender, though. Maybe. Sometimes I feel like a boy."

"What do you feel now?"

Tyler thinks for a moment. "A boy, I think? How does being a boy feel like?"

Josh blinks. "I don't know. You just… are."

Tyler slowly nods. He picks at a pimple on his temple. "Could I be both agender and a boy?"

"Yeah! Bigender. You've two genders."

"I like that."

Josh takes Tyler's hand, blood and scabs under his nails. Josh kisses his fingers. "I like that, too."

*

The doctor gives Tyler the all-clear the next day. They give him methadone, and they give Josh naloxone—just in case.

"You know how to use it, right?"

Josh nods. He doesn't have the strength to speak.

Tyler denies rehab. He says he'll be fine on his own. "We won't have the pills in the house anymore. I'll be okay. If I relapse again, somehow, then I'll go. I'll be okay. I'm okay."

In the car, Josh's hands shake on the steering wheel. "Want me to drop you off at your parents' house? So they can see you?"

"I'll FaceTime them later." Tyler hugs his legs. "Let's—"

"How long have you been taking my pills?"

Tyler hesitates before answering. "Since November, maybe? I stopped after… after you said that thing about breaking your leg. And then, the pain started again two or so days ago. I will admit, I did overreact. I got sharp pains in my legs and down my spine, and I-I-I downed the rest of the bottle. I couldn't handle it."

"I hid the key to that box."

"Didn't hide it well enough." Tyler reverts to this original train of thought. "Let's play a game. An alphabet game. Back and forth, down the alphabet, gotta name words that start with each letter, _but_ it's gotta be sexual."

Josh smiles and doesn't feel guilty for doing so. "Who's going first?"

"You can."

"Anal."

Tyler sighs. "Too easy." He taps his chin. "Bottom bitch."

Josh laughs. "You could have—you—you could have just said 'bottom'."

Tyler laughs, too. "Nope! Your turn."

"Okay. Cunt."

"Doggy style."

Josh grinds his teeth into his lip. "Enema."

Tyler holds his side as he wails with laughter.

*

It's different when they get home. The tone is more somber than what it was in the car. After Tyler's uttering of "zoophilia", the mood quieted down, and then Josh pulled into the driveway. They went inside their apartment, and they haven't said a word since—haven't looked at each other either. Tyler keeps to himself, in the bedroom. He changes clothes and immediately turns off all the lights and closes the blinds and curtains. Despite it being the afternoon, Tyler already settles down to sleep. And he's out as soon as he sets his head on a pillow. Josh stands in the doorway to watch him. Josh is scared. The next few weeks are going to be rough, but they've been through this before. Josh just didn't know it was withdrawal. He thought Tyler had a stomach bug. Josh pounds his fists into his head. He's so _fucking_ —

Tyler talks in his sleep. It isn't coherent, but Josh hears his name. And so, despite it being the middle of the day, Josh sheds his street clothes and tugs on a big t-shirt. He doesn't wear pants. Feeling Tyler's bare skin against his bare skin, even though it's just their legs, makes Josh feel a little better.

But they're still out of step.

Tyler wakes late—no, early. It's two in the morning. He moves around a lot for someone just trying to leave the bed to take a piss. "Blanket," he mumbles, Josh awake now. "Around my ankle."

"Here." Josh helps him out. He says, "Let's take a shower together."

Tyler doesn't object. He undresses on the way there.

Josh ignores the pain in his wrists and knees as he washes Tyler's hair. He says, "I feel like you're so far away from me."

Tyler is turning Josh around, squirting shampoo into his palm to lather into Josh's own curls. "I'm here. I'm right here, Josh."

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Tyler stands by the sink as Josh spreads shaving cream along his face. Tyler shivers. Josh gives him another towel, draping it over Tyler's shoulders.

"I'll go slow," he says, and raises the razor. "Okay?"

"Josh, you're shaking. I can shave—"

"I need to do this, Tyler."

Tyler doesn't protest. He stands perfectly still as Josh slides the razor along his face, removing the stubble and replacing it with smooth, dark skin. Josh holds his breath and tries not to shake. He doesn't cut Tyler any. They're good.

Josh wipes away the stray bits of shaving cream with his towel. He stands naked and tells Tyler he looks better. Tyler says, "Lemme shave you, then." So, Josh lets him.

Tyler uses an electric razor for this. It goes by faster. Josh had a beard. Tyler had weak excuse for stubble.

"Can I go back to bed?" Tyler asks. His eyes are exhausted.

Josh shakes his head. "I need to… to…"

Tyler says, "Okay."

Josh is careful with Tyler. He wets a washcloth and runs it behind Tyler's ears, down to the lobes, the left one home to a pimple. Beads roll down Tyler's neck during Josh's massage. Slow and calculated, Josh treats Tyler like he might break. "How are you feeling?"

"Bad."

Josh sticks his fingertip, covered by the washcloth, in Tyler's ear, and rotates his wrist. He doesn't go deep. Deep would hurt.

Tyler stares at Josh. He glances at the washcloth once Josh pulls out his finger. "Little waxy," he says, and tilts his head for Josh to give the other ear the same treatment.

"My appointment's tomorrow." Josh furrows his brow. "Actually today. Do you want me to ask my doctor if there are some intravenous medication for fibromyalgia?"

"Do you think that would be better for me?" Tyler looks at the washcloth again. The wax this time isn't plentiful. He sniffs. "I guess you could ask. Need to do anything else?"

Josh runs the washcloth under the faucet. "Can I trim your pubic hair?"

Tyler smiles.

*

Tocilizumab is Josh's lifeline.

*

Tyler is on the couch when Josh comes home, laptop on his thighs. He's typing. No cigarettes or ashtray are in sight.

First thing Josh tells him is "You don't have to go cold turkey on everything. You can smoke—tobacco and marijuana. That's okay."

"I haven't felt well enough to do much of anything today."

"Why are you not in bed?"

Tyler seems confused. "I don't know."

"Stay in bed. Sleep for the next seventy-two hours. Your body will thank you."

"I'm scared, Josh."

Josh points at Tyler's laptop. "Are you finished?"

Tyler nods.

Josh shuts the laptop and sets it aside. "Look at me. Listen." He touches Tyler's knees. Tyler covers Josh's hands with his own. "You've gone through withdrawal before. This time, it'll be easier. You have methadone—you're taking it, right?"

"Yes."

"That's supposed to alleviate the symptoms. You're going to be okay. We're prepared. We're ready."

Tyler doesn't bother wiping his eyes. "Yeah."

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Crackers."

"When?"

"'Bout an hour ago."

Josh kisses Tyler's forehead. "Go to bed. I'll be right behind you."

Tyler lunges forward and hugs Josh, arms tight around Josh's neck. He doesn't let go. Josh carries him. It's okay. He had his tocilizumab treatment today.

*

First, though—

"Have you talked to your parents yet?"

Tyler is on his back, hands clutching Josh's shoulders. Josh shifts from side to side, Tyler's thighs warm by his waist. Tyler slowly nods. "When you were gone. They were happy to see I was alive."

Josh narrows his eyes. "Did you tell them about not going to rehab?"

"Yes. They said I was your problem now." Tyler smiles at this, sickly sweet, and Josh sighs and leans forward, kissing Tyler's mouth. Tyler's still smiling. "Please don't fuck me," Tyler says. "I might shit on your dick."

"Way to kill the mood."

Tyler encompasses Josh with all limbs and buries his face in Josh's neck. "Oh, Josh, I want you to fuck me so hard the diarrhea—"

" _Oh, my God, Tyler_." Josh doesn't pull or push away in disgust. He hugs Tyler and doesn't let go, doesn't want to let go. He holds Tyler, and he rolls onto his side, Tyler following, and still doesn't let go. He rubs Tyler's back and Tyler's hips, and Tyler bends and melts into Josh's hands.

"That feels so good."

"Gonna come for me, baby?"

"Shut up." Tyler closes his eyes, lips parted. "Shit, right there."

Josh presses his fingertips into Tyler's back, right at the small of it. He starts with counterclockwise this time. "I'm determined to worm out a dry orgasm from you."

"Go right ahead, hun." Tyler smiles. "I'll suck your dick if you do."

"And have you vomit on my dick? No thanks."

Tyler says, "Shut up. I'm trying to sleep for the next seventy-two hours."

"My doctor said it's possible for fibromyalgia to be treated intravenously. It's up to you to go to the doctor and take that step."

Tyler takes in a slow breath. He repeats, "I'm trying to sleep for the next seventy-two hours."

*

And Tyler does, with breaks in between to munch on crackers, sip on soup, and use the bathroom. For the most part, Tyler doesn't leave the bed. Josh helps him whenever he can.

Once, after Josh hands him a glass of water, he tells Josh, "You don't have to keep doing this. I know you feel guilty, but you can stop. This wasn't your fault. You didn't shove the pills down my throat. You were wonderful to me. You don't need to keep apologizing for something you didn't do."

Tyler pats Josh's cheek, the touches lingering. "Do you know what you can do? Touch up the pink in your hair. I missed how vibrant it was."

Josh touches Tyler's hand, the one on his cheek, and Tyler doesn't mind the condensation from the glass cooling his skin. "I will."

*

It's January. It's cold. Tyler ventures from the bedroom to stand behind Josh in the kitchen. He's quiet, socks on his feet, and says not a word. Josh is leaning against a counter, head dropped in his hands. If Tyler were to ask, Josh would deny his shoulders were shaking.

"Hey," Tyler says.

Josh jumps. He acts like he didn't. "Hey."

"I woke up and didn't feel awful. I don't have a runny nose. I'm not shivering. I'm not anxious. My bowel movements are… regular, or however you describe them. I think the worst is over."

"That's good."

"So, now, I want us to go to Taco Bell."

"Your stomach can handle that?"

"We'll find out." Tyler purses his lips. "'He'," he says.

Josh nonchalantly wipes the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Those are my pronouns. I figured it out."

"I didn't realize you were having trouble with your pronouns."

"I didn't either." Tyler shrugs. "It's okay."

"Okay."

"I think, like, maybe… next week I should go to the doctor." Tyler nods to himself. "I think it'll work out."

Josh smiles. "I think so, too."

*

It does. It works out.

It works out.

*

It's February.

Tyler lies on his stomach, on the couch. "Do you remember that short story I made you read?"

Josh is on the floor. He looks over at Tyler. "Yeah, why?"

"The writer got it published. Turns out their lack of plot didn't matter."

"I think the only thing that matters is if the writer liked it."

"They told me it wasn't their best work, but they still really liked it." Tyler turns his head. He stares at Josh. "They gave me credit. 'Edited by Tyler Joseph'. Cool stuff, right?"

"Definitely. How are you feeling?"

It's February.

Tyler shakes his hand, a rocking. "A little antsy from fear of relapse, but I'll be all right."

"Maybe smoking will take off the edge."

"What are you doing on the floor again?"

"You told me the couch was reserved for royalty."

"Oh, yeah." Tyler moves a few emails to their appropriate folder. Hand over his mouth, absently, he admits, "I'm not in pain anymore."

Josh tries to hold Tyler's hand, but he ends up grabbing a fistful of sweatshirt. He hangs on. Tyler lets him.

"I'm not in pain," Tyler says, a revelation that brings tears to his eyes. "I'm not in pain. I feel so… so… _free_."

*

Underneath the bed, kept in the box that stays unlocked, is the naloxone. No one touches it, and no one thinks about it.

Tyler keeps his notebook as a platform for the box. He doesn't want to remember a time where he deluded himself to the point of thinking Josh was the embodiment of God.

He was embarrassed when he stuck the notebook under there. "I can't believe I wrote that shit. I can't believe you _read_ that shit. Why are you still putting up with me?"

This was when Josh would jump backwards off the roof of their apartment if it meant his guilt would dissipate. He didn't answer Tyler, and Tyler didn't expect him to answer.

It's March now, and Josh is falling to his hands and knees to peer under the bed. He's squinting, and Tyler's squinting back at him, his fingers in his mouth, soaking wet with his saliva as he silently laughs around them.

"Ge' ou' from under there," says Josh. "I found you."

"Peekaboo," Tyler says, and army-crawls his way out. He's giggling, hardy and endearing. "It's your turn to hide."

"We fucking hotboxed this room. There's no way I'm leaving." Josh takes Tyler's slimy fingers and sticks them in his own mouth, kissing them right down to the knuckle.

"That feels funny," Tyler says. "Oh! It's supposed to be hot tomorrow. We should totally go running."

"Right on."

Tyler pulls his hands from Josh's mouth and sits on them. "Okay, if you aren't going to cooperate and hide, then we can play a different game."

Josh smiles in anticipation. "What letter this time, dude?"

" _M!_ What can't you spell without an _M_?"

"'Marijuana'."

Tyler rolls his eyes. "Too easy." He sticks out his bottom lip. "'Mickey Mouse'."

"' _Mighty_ Mouse'."

Tyler groans. "Josh, get your own ideas."

Josh kisses Tyler's nose. "I don't want to say the obvious."

"What's obvious?" Tyler knows. He grins, cheeks round, pink. "What's obvious?" he whispers.

Josh leans in, forehead to Tyler's forehead. "'Marriage'."

"I thought you were gonna say 'marmalade'."

Josh pulls Tyler into his lap, Tyler easy and moldable. Tyler even lets Josh dip him and expose his neck to biting kisses. "Tyler, will you marmalade me?"

Tyler laughs so hard his laughs make no noise. He inhales, chest heaving as he catches his breath. "Ask me tomorrow. We need to open a window. Clear our heads."

"That's really smart, Tyler. I love you."

"Shut up. I'm all fuzzy. And lemme go. I'm about to piss my pants."

*

Josh rides his bike, and Tyler sits on the handlebars. The air smells like mown grass.

"Did you really mean that?" Tyler asks. A cigarette is between his fingers, but he hasn't lit it yet. "Yesterday, did you really mean it?"

"It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"I suppose. Maybe we should wait."

"That makes sense, too."

"Does it?" Tyler lights his cigarette at a stop sign. He hops off Josh's bike.

"Yeah. We haven't even known each other a year." Josh tugs on Tyler's sleeve. "How're your eggs?"

Tyler checks his phone. "We have one more kilometer to go on this ten kilometer egg."

"What do you think's gonna hatch?"

Tyler flicks ash into the wind. "Hopefully Dratini." He hands Josh the cigarette. "Here. I want to take you for a ride."

"Think you can handle my weight?"

Like a child, Tyler turns his baseball cap backwards and gives Josh finger guns. "Definitely."

*

Tyler can.

And his egg hatches into a Dratini.

*

Tyler smokes cigarettes whenever he can. He doesn't count the joints he rolls. More of leisure now rather than a form of self-medication, Tyler smokes on his walks with Josh and sometimes around the house—typically reserved to when he's on his laptop. He hasn't spilled the ashtray on his keyboard yet, and he's extra careful when it comes to this. He doesn't want to pull off keys with a handheld vacuum.

"Do you think people will care?" Tyler says aloud, seemingly to himself, but when Josh rolls to face Tyler, he sees Tyler is staring at him.

"Care about what?"

"If I were to… write a story about… not me, but… about a person…" Tyler shakes his head. "Never mind."

"No, tell me." Josh moves a pillow aside to touch Tyler's leg, warm from the laptop's heat. "Your experiences with drugs?"

"Sort of, but… more fantastical? Like, I don't know if it'll be too scary to write in realistic terms what I saw, what I felt, stuff like that. So, what if it's… like, aliens?" Tyler doesn't laugh.

Josh doesn't either. "Metaphors?"

"Yeah, I think that's the word I'm looking for."

"Don't make it too pretentious, and you'll be good." Josh rubs Tyler's leg and gives it a final pat before grabbing the pillow he moved. He hugs it and looks up at Tyler. "Do you have anything written yet?"

Tyler clicks around on the screen. "'When I am one step ahead,'" he begins, "'the claws and fangs find me again. They force the acid valleys in my stomach to break the dams I built with care and my own two hands. My fingers are rubbed raw, my nails are breaking, and my skin has become a cesspool for mountains and snow-white peaks.'"

Josh sets his hand on the crook of Tyler's elbow. "I thought you didn't want to remember that stuff."

"It's good, though. Did you hear that? That was good. I can't forget that." Tyler rubs his eyes. He continues to read, but it's something Josh hasn't read before.

"'There are moments when I am frightened the demons might return. I want nothing more than them to vanish completely, but they keep me sane. They remind me I am bound until the final breath leaves my lungs—yet even then, He may not be done with me. He can bring me back whenever or wherever He wants, and I will let Him. He has life in His hands, full of it, and He will spread His fingers over my face and force me steady. He will love me, and He will save me, and He will ask me, "What's a word that can't be spelled without…?" And I will fall to my knees. I will always fall to my knees in front of Him.'

"'" _M_ ," He requests today. "What are words that can't be spelled without an _M_?" And I tell Him, and I tell Him, and I'm smoking a joint and watching Him pace our room, in our house on a star in a galaxy no one has discovered yet. We will never be found, and even I know a million light years from this star and my home planet cannot make it okay for me to marry a God.'"

Tyler's cigarette is gone. Tears run down his cheeks. "It's stupid," he says.

"It's not," Josh says, and he has tears on his cheeks, too. He sits up and drops the butt of Tyler's cigarette into the ashtray. "It's the furthest thing from stupid, Tyler."

Tyler sniffs.

"Keep going." Josh takes Tyler's hand. "It's a flourished diary of an astronaut. They think they're being poisoned by this alien they think is God, but the poison is actually love."

"You're the alien the astronaut thinks is God, Josh."

Josh smiles. "Keep going."

So, Tyler lights another cigarette, and Josh lies back down, and Josh watches Tyler type with ash on the front of his sweatshirt, and Tyler smiles.

And they're not in pain.


End file.
